The wretched people thus left on the wreck knew well that the boat could not make her port, land the rescued party, and return for them under some hours. They also knew that the waves were increasing in power and volume with the rising water, and that their vessel could not survive another tide. Can we wonder that most of them again gave way to despair—forgetting that with God “all things are possible?”
They were not yet forsaken, however. On the pier-head at Greyton their signals had indeed been observed, but while the Brentley boat, owing to its position, could run down to the wreck with all sail set, it was impossible for that of Greyton to reach it, except by pulling slowly against wind and tide.
The instant that Bob Massey saw the flare of the first tar-barrel he had called out his men. One after another they came leaping over the rocks—eager for the God-like work of saving life.
It is one of the grand characteristics of our lifeboatmen that on being summoned to the fight there are often far more volunteers than are required. Joe Slag, as in duty bound, was first to answer the call. Then several of the younger men came running down. Last of all—almost too late—Tom Riley appeared, buckling on his lifebelt as he ran. His gait was not quite steady, and his face was flushed. The coxswain was quick to note these facts.
“Take that lifebelt off!” he said, sternly, when Riley came up.
No need to ask why. The tippler knew the reason why only too well, and he also knew that it was useless as well as dangerous to disobey the coxswain. He took off the belt at once, flung it down, and staggered away back to his grog-shop.
A powerful young fisherman—who had felt almost heart-broken by being refused permission to go for want of room—gladly put on the belt and took Riley’s place. Another minute and they were out of the harbour, battling with the billows and fighting their way inch by inch against the howling blast. At last they got out so far that they could hoist sail and run with a slant for the wreck.
Story 1 – Chapter 2
It was daylight by the time the Greyton lifeboat arrived at the scene of action, but the thick, spray-charged atmosphere was almost as bad to see through as the blackness of night.
“I’m afeared she’s gone,” shouted Slag to the coxswain, putting his hand to his mouth to prevent the words being blown bodily away.
“No—I see her bearing sou’-west,” was the brief reply, as Bob Massey plied his steering oar.
A few minutes later, and the despairing people on the wreck, catching sight of the boat, greeted her with a long, wild cheer of reviving hope.
“What is it?” asked the widow, faintly, for she had been growing gradually weaker from prolonged exposure.
“The lifeboat, darling,” said her father. “Did I not say that He would not forsake us?”
“Thank God!” murmured the poor woman, fervently. “Look up, Lizzie; the lifeboat is coming to save us!”
The child, who had been comparatively warm and sheltered, at the expense of her mother, looked up and smiled.
Soon the boat was alongside, and much the same scene that we have already described was re-enacted; but there were no rebels this time. By the captain’s resolute bearing at first many lives had probably been saved.
When most of the people had been lowered into the boat—not without great risk and many bruises—the widow, who, cowering with her father and child under the forecastle, had been overlooked, was led to the side with her child.
“Not together, ma’am,” said the captain. “You’d likely drop her. Let me lower the child down first; or come first yourself—that will be better.”
“Give Lizzie to me,” said the grandfather. “I’ll hold her till you are safe, and ready to receive her.”
“Look alive, ma’am,” urged one of the lifeboat men, who had scrambled on deck to render assistance.
The widow was soon in the boat, and held out her arms for little Lizzie. Somehow—no one could tell how—the men made a bungle of it. Perhaps the very fear of doing so was the cause. Instead of being caught by the boatmen, Lizzie slipped between the boat and the vessel into the boiling sea. Giving one agonised cry, the grandfather leaped after her, but the surging boat swept in at the moment, and the old man fortunately fell into that instead of the sea. He was not hurt, for strong arms had been upraised to receive him. The little child rose above the foam as she was whirled past the stern of the boat by a swift current. Bob Massey saw her little out-stretched arms. There was no time for thought or consideration. With one bound the coxswain was overboard. Next moment the crew saw him far astern with the child in his arms.
“Get ’em all aboard first!” came back, even against the wind, in Bob’s powerful, deep-toned voice.
Another moment, and he was lost to sight in the boiling waste of waters. Slag knew well what he meant. If they should cast off the rope before rescuing all, for the purpose of picking up the coxswain, there would be no possibility of getting back again to the schooner, for she was fast breaking up. Every current and eddy about these sands was well known to Joe Slag, also the set of the tides—besides, had not Bob got on his lifebelt? He felt, nevertheless, that it was a tremendous risk to let him go. But what could poor Slag do? To cast off at once would have been to sacrifice about a dozen lives for the sake of saving two. It was a fearful trial. Joe loved Bob as a brother. His heart well nigh burst, but it stood the trial. He did his duty, and held on to the wreck!
Duty, on that occasion, however, was done with a promptitude, and in a fashion, that was not usual in one of his sedate nature. Fortunately, none but men remained on the wreck by that time.
“Tumble ’em in—sharp!” cried Slag.
The lifeboat men obeyed literally, and tumbled them in with a celerity that might almost have awakened surprise in a sack of potatoes!
To haul up the anchor would have been slow work. Slag—economical by nature—became extravagant for once. An axe made short work of cable and anchor.
“Let ’em go!” he growled, as the boat drifted away.
The sail was set with miraculous speed, for now the wind was in their favour, and the gay lifeboat bounded off in the direction where Bob had disappeared, as though it felt a lively interest in the recovery of its coxswain. It seemed as if the very elements sympathised with their anxiety, for just then the gale sensibly abated, and the rising sun broke through a rift in the grey clouds.
“There he is—I see him!” shouted the man in the bow—pointing eagerly ahead.
“It’s on’y a bit o’ wreck, boy,” cried a comrade.
“Right you are,” returned the bowman.
“There he is, though, an’ no mistake, this time. Port!—port! hard-a-port!”
As he spoke, the boat swept round into a sort of cross-current among the waves, where an object resembling a man was observed spinning slowly round like a lazy teetotum. They were soon alongside. A dozen claw-like hands made a simultaneous grasp, and hauled the object on board with a mighty cheer, for it was, indeed, the coxswain—alive, though much exhausted—with his precious little curly-haired burden in his arms.
The burden was also alive, and not much exhausted, for the weather was comparatively warm at the time, and Bob had thrust her little head into the luxuriant thicket of his beard and whiskers; and, spreading his great hands and arms all over her little body, had also kept her well out of the water—all which the great buoyancy of his lifebelt enabled him easily to do.
Shall we describe the joy of the widow and the grandfather? No; there are some sacred matters in life which are best left to the imagination. The sunshine which had begun to scatter the clouds, and flood both land and sea, was typical of the joy which could find no better means than sobs wherewith to express gratitude to the God of